


Once More, You

by InterstellarBlue (nagi_schwarz)



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Light Angst, M/M, Past Character Death, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/InterstellarBlue
Summary: Written for the 90's music comment_fic prompt: "Any, any, my heart will go on (celine dion)"Lee Dongmin has a second lease on life and is looking to make friends with his coworkers, but Park Jinwoo hates him.Featuring Sanha who uses too many exclamation points, Bin who has an exacting palate, Minhyuk who's popular for his ass, and stubbornly evasive writer Cha Eunho.
Relationships: Kim Myungjun | MJ/Park Jinwoo | Jin Jin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020, K-pop and K-drama AUs





	Once More, You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/gifts).



Dongmin drifted toward consciousness. The light overhead was too bright. He closed his eyes again. Something was beeping incessantly. His entire body ached. One of his hands was cold. The other was warm. Someone was holding his hand. His mother?

He heard sobbing.

He tried to reach out, offer comfort. Tried to speak.  _ Don’t cry. _

“You - you always used to sing that  _ stupid _ song, My Heart Will Go On. You always said you meant it, but you never meant  _ anything  _ you said except - except when you said you love me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back as often as I could have. I love you. I’ll always love you. Thank you for keeping your promise to me, even in this small way.”

Dongmin strained to open his eyes.

The voice was male. Unfamiliar. Deep and rough with emotion, but slow and measured.

“Love you, Junie.”

Someone squeezed Dongmin’s hand.

He tried to speak.  _ Wait. Don’t cry! _

The warmth vanished, and Dongmin tumbled back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he woke, his mother, father, and younger brother, plus a handful of assorted hospital personnel were crowded around his bed. His mother clutched his hand, and he wondered if he hadn’t imagined that stranger at his bedside. The doctors explained that his being alive was a miracle, that making it to his age should have been impossible with how fast his heart had deteriorated, but he’d been placed on the top of the donor list, and a heart had become available right at the last moment.

Dongmin nodded and tried to smile, tried to be brave for his family, tried to be polite and grateful to the doctors, but his head was spinning. As soon as he was alone, he peered down his hospital top and saw the huge bandage on his chest.

He’d died on the table multiple times, but between the genius surgeon and the providence of a new heart, he had the rest of his life ahead of him. As long as he took his meds and took care of himself, he could live the life his parents had always dreamed for him, long and happy.

Recovery would be slow, and he’d have to be patient with himself and the people around him. But he could live a full life, including doing sports and all the other things he cared about.

His boss from the newspaper visited him once, brought him flowers and juice, chatted a bit awkwardly, because Dongmin had been working for barely a month before he’d collapsed in the middle of an interview. He stayed at his parents’ house for another month, doing his best to rest and recover and go to his physical therapy appointments, but after a month of his mother constantly flitting around him and touching his forehead and stuffing him full of food and his father looking at him misty-eyed all the time and his younger brother treating him like he was made of glass when before they’d fight and shove each other, he had to escape.

The only reason his parents let him move back into his own apartment was that the doctor had cleared him to return to work at his most recent check-up, and his apartment was closer to the newspaper offices. When he finally stepped into the office, he was dressed his very best, hair carefully styled, face done up, and he knew he looked unapproachable, but it was better than looking weak.

He bowed to his colleagues, many of whom smiled at him and welcomed him back, and made his way to his desk. The number of unread emails that had piled up - many wishing him a speedy recovery - made him tired just looking at it, but he cracked his knuckles and rolled his wrists and set to work.

At lunch time, many of the others went to eat together - eating with one’s colleagues was a big part of professionalism and fitting in with the team, Dongmin knew - but Dongmin waved off an invitation to join the others, because he had a lot to catch up on.

Several other young men around his age lingered near his desk, and he heard murmurs,  _ He should keep up his strength, he’s still recovering, _ and  _ What do you care? _ And finally  _ Let’s go, I’m hungry, I only got half a breakfast this morning because  _ someone _ was being slow again. _

Dongmin ducked his head and kept on working. While the office was empty, he turned on some music, some Gershwin to give him energy but that wouldn’t distract him too much. He only noted the others’ return long enough to shut off his music, and he kept on working. All of his writing assignments had been redistributed while he was recovering. Until he could accept new assignments, he’d been tasked with doing the copyediting for his colleagues, and there was a flood of requests for him to look over articles ahead of the publication deadline. 

Dongmin figured it was better to be the copy editor than the conceptual editor, because he was just making sure the basics were up to snuff - spelling, punctuation, grammar - and the articles he was reading were already fairly polished.

Even if he couldn’t remember his coworkers’ faces very well, he could recognize their writing. Yoon Sanha, who covered tech and video games, had a bright, bubbly tone, with a youthful appeal even though he knew his facts well and structured his article well. He had a tendency toward using too many exclamation points, and Dongmin found the occasional stray colon that he was pretty sure was from a half-formed smiley emoticon, but he flagged those for Sanha to remove himself if he so chose and continued on.

Moon Bin was a restaurant critic who went to great lengths to get into the best - if not the most popular - dining establishments in Seoul, and each review was part adventure story. He had an exacting palate, probably due to his very sensitive nose, and Dongmin felt his mouth water as he read a description of a particularly excellent roll of kimbap from a small diner run by an old grandma and her two granddaughters.

Park Minhyuk covered performance arts, reviewing dance and musical performances. Dongmin guessed he’d had some classical dance training himself, because he knew a lot of technical terms when it came to reviewing the National Ballet’s recent production of Swan Lake. Dongmin absently tagged a few very technical terms whose spellings he wasn’t sure of since they were essentially loan-words from French and English, and he wondered what Park Minhyuk looked like, if he was tall and slender and had graceful hands.

Dongmin was almost done with a review about a new drama featuring a man with alexithymia and a boy who was psychometric when he felt someone tap his shoulder.

He looked up. “Hello?”

But there was no one there.

Dongmin twisted around in his chair, searching, but plenty of people were bustling around the office, peeking over the dividers between their cubicles to talk to each other, delivering files back and forth. There was even a chessboard balanced at the intersection of several cubicle dividers, and two women were studying the board shrewdly while a young man watched, timer in hand.

Dongmin didn’t know anyone’s names well enough to just call out, but if the person hadn’t stuck around, then what they wanted from him must not have been that important. He sighed and turned back to his laptop - and nearly knocked a bottle of water onto the floor. 

He stared. That bottle of water hadn’t been there a second ago, nor had the little lunchbox beside it. Dongmin opened the box tentatively. It was filled with sushi, plus chopsticks and little packets of soy sauce and wasabi and pickled ginger. He didn’t really like sushi, but - it was food. He was supposed to be watching his health. His coworkers had brought him back lunch. That was kind.

Dongmin lifted the box and called out a general thank you to the room, but that only resulted in him getting weird looks, so he ducked his head and ate. The sushi was surprisingly good. Was it just because he was so hungry? Usually he didn’t like things that tasted really fishy, but between the paper-thin lemon slices on top and the spicy mayo inside, the sushi was really good. Dongmin dug in with even more gusto. Once he was caught up on his work, he’d make sure to go to lunch with his coworkers, even treat them.

One of the nice things about looking at the almost-finished articles was that Dongmin got to see them in their sample layout, with pictures included. The newspaper had many talented photographers. The principal photographer for the Arts and Leisure section was someone named Park Jinwoo. His photos were featured in every single article Dongmin had reviewed that day. His photos of the food at the restaurant Moon Bin reviewed made Dongmin’s stomach rumble when he looked at them again, and he’d managed to catch some impressive action shots of a ballerina mid-leap for Park Minhyuk’s article. When Dongmin reviewed Yoon Sanha’s article, there were pictures of the reporter himself wearing a headset and sitting at a computer in a PC-bang, grinning as something blew up on the monitor behind him. Perhaps Yoon Sanha’s youthful charm and boyish good looks were part of what earned him regular readers and therefore a regular column.

Once Dongmin was finished with those first four articles, he stood up and stretched, went to get himself some hot cocoa instead of coffee; he’d been warned off of too much caffeine, for his heart. While he was in there, another man came in. He was shorter than Dongmin, wearing an oversized sweater and skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees, battered old sneakers. With his pastel orange hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like a hip-hop dancer who was going to college, and Dongmin was surprised to see him there, only he had an employee badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and he was looking at a fancy digital camera, peering at previews of the pictures on the little screen below the viewfinder.

Dongmin cleared his throat. “Hello.”

The man looked up, and his eyes went wide. He spun on his heel and left the break room.

Dongmin watched him go, startled, then looked down at himself. He didn’t have any stains on his clothes. Did he have something on his face?

He got his phone out of his pocket and checked his reflection. He looked all right. Beneath his makeup he knew he looked pale and exhausted, because open-heart surgery had wreaked havoc on his body even though it had saved his life. Maybe the photographer was shy. That was probably why he was a photographer, so he could experience the world through the filter of a camera lens.

Dongmin fixed himself another mug of hot cocoa, and he went back to his desk to work on the next set of articles.

Before he left for the day, he wrote on a sticky note and put it on his desk. He figured whoever had brought him the lunch would see it.

_ Thank you for the delicious food. I ate it well. _

Then he put on his jacket, thanked his coworkers for working hard, gathered up his laptop, and headed for the elevator. On the way down to the ground floor, he heard his coworkers chatting to each other about their plans for the evening - getting meals and drinks with each other, dates with significant others, meals with family or friends.

Dongmin was going home to his empty apartment. His phone buzzed in his pocket. His mother was calling.

He answered it quickly, kept his voice low. “Yes, Mom?”

“Dongminnie, how was your first day back at work?”

“It was fine. I worked hard but I didn’t overly strain myself, I promise.”

“That’s good. Are you headed home now?”

“I am.”

“Make sure you have a good dinner. You still have that food I sent with you, yes?”

“I do.”

“All right. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“I love you, Dongminnie. Take care of yourself.”

“Love you too, Mom.” 

“Good night. Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.” 

Dongmin was surprised his mother hung up first, but he tucked his phone away and ducked his head. He hadn’t talked about anything overly personal with his mother, but he didn’t much like having personal conversations where others could hear.

As he scanned the occupants of the elevator car, he recognized Yoon Sanha standing in the opposite corner. He was much taller than Dongmin had thought he would be, given his boyish features, but he didn’t look quite as young in person. Two other young men stood close to him.

“Want to go get something to eat?” The man who spoke to Sanha was about Dongmin’s height, broad across the shoulders. “We could check out that new place in Itaewon that purportedly sells authentic Belgian waffles, pearl sugar and all.”

Sanha narrowed his eyes. “You just want to get a jump-start on your next writing assignment.”

“And eat really good waffles,” the man said.

Dongmin sneaked a glance at his ID badge and was unable to read his name, but he was pretty sure he knew who it was. Moon Bin, the restaurant critic.

“C’mon,” Bin said. “After the waffles we can go to the PC-bang and you can start on your next assignment. I’ll even buy a round of drinks.” He nudged the shorter man next to him, the one with the very high cheekbones and dark, dark eyes. “What do you say, Minhyuk-ah?”

“Maybe next time. I’m going to check on Cousin Jinwoo.”

Minhyuk. Park Minhyuk, the performing arts reviewer? Was the photographer Park Jinwoo his cousin? 

Knowing how coworkers were connected to each other was important for getting along in the workplace, Dongmin knew. He made a mental note.

Bin and Sanha exchanged knowing looks, then nodded.

“How is he doing?” Bin asked.

“You know how he is,” Minhyuk said. 

Sanha shook his head. “He came back to work so quickly.”

“Well, he wasn’t legally entitled to any time off,” Bin said in a low voice. “But Editor Ji is a really good person.”

The elevator doors opened on the first floor, and Dongmin was swept into the lobby along with the others.

“Give Jinwoo-hyung our best,” Sanha called, and Minhyuk nodded.

Dongmin wondered what had happened to Jinwoo, so he could avoid doing or saying anything insensitive, but he still wasn’t close enough to anyone he could ask about that sort of thing.

He’d find out in time, he was sure. He was a reporter, after all. He always found the story in the end.

Dongmin headed home to his empty apartment.

He cobbled together a supper from the kimchi and meat and various banchan his mother had sent with him (one of her conditions on him going back to his apartment on his own), and he watched the first episode of that psychometric detective drama while he ate. Once the meal was finished, he did the dishes, took a shower, took his meds, and crawled into bed.

He was alive. He was grateful for that. 

He really had to start living more.

He could start with lunch with some of his coworkers. It was a small thing.

* * *

The next day, Dongmin took care to dress nicely again, and he made sure he was smiling when he stepped onto the elevator. He recognized several people in the car with him as being from his department, but besides Editor Ji, the only people he whose names he knew were Moon Bin, Park Minhyuk, and Yoon Sanha. Dongmin bowed and smiled at them, said good morning.

Editor Ji smiled back. “Good morning to you, Dongmin-ssi. Thank you for the quick turnaround on those copy edits yesterday.”

“No problem, Editor. I was glad to keep busy.”

“Did this one use too many exclamation points?” Editor Ji nodded at Sanha, who immediately looked indignant, but then he ducked his head and said to Dongmin,

“I’m sorry if I used too many exclamation marks.”

“And smiley emoticons,” Bin said, which earned him a glare from Sanha.

Dongmin did his best to be complimentary without sounding like a flatterer. “You write well,” he said to Sanha. “Your tone is refreshing and approachable, but you still sound informed and knowledgeable.”

Sanha preened. “See? I’m a good writer.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Bin said. “He’s still in college. He runs a popular gaming blog and gaming streaming feed. He got lucky.”

“I recognize talent when I see it,” Editor Ji said calmly.

“I’m going to the same college you just barely graduated from,” Sanha said to Bin. “And I started here as a real reporter at the same time you did.”

“Ah, but I interned here for such a long time, right, Minhyuk? We’ve been here the longest,” Bin said.

Minhyuk nodded.

“I guess I’m the junior-most hoobae of us all. Please take good care of me.” Dongmin bowed.

“What university did you go to?” Bin asked.

The elevator doors slid open, and they all stepped out, headed for the bullpen together.

“Seongdae,” Dongmin said.

Minhyuk raised his eyebrows. “That’s a good school.”

“It’s not a SKY university,” Dongmin said, “but I was lucky to be accepted there.”

“We’re lucky to have you.” Editor Ji clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, go check your email inbox. Recovery is over! Your newest assignment awaits.”

Dongmin’s pulse sped up. He was always so aware of what his heart was doing. He resisted the urge to press a hand to his chest - no one knew why he’d been in the hospital, just that his stay there had been very serious - and nodded. “Thank you, Editor.”

He bade the others farewell, then headed to his desk. A real assignment. Finally. He was back in the game. Life was back to normal. 

* * *

Dongmin’s new assignment was an interview with the notoriously reclusive author Cha Eunho, who’d risen to fame with a web novel while he was still a Korean Literature major in university and who was now one of the founding members of the small but highly-regarded Gyeoroo Publishing. He was handsome, played the piano, and hated being interviewed. He had a knack for dodging reporters that rivaled an NIS ghost agent, and he would outright lie to fans who asked him if he was who he was.

As Dongmin read through previous articles on the man, a handful of interviews over the years plus some mini-biographies and book reviews, he was excited. A real challenge. He’d read plenty of the man’s work, including the web novel that made him famous, and he knew he was being both honored and hazed with this assignment. Cha Eunho was a very famous author. Dongmin’s chances of getting an actual interview with him were slim.

Dongmin was so excited about his new assignment that he didn’t realize he hadn’t gotten up from his desk once the entire morning till he heard Bin say,

“I’m hungry. Can we go now? Please?”

“Let me finish this paragraph,” Minhyuk said.

“You don’t need to finish the entire paragraph. Just the sentence you’re on. Come on,” Bin wheedled.

Dongmin looked at his watch. It was lunch time. He peered into his coffee mug. It was empty, and the dregs of his morning cup of hot cocoa were sticky and drying in places. He was, he realized, very thirsty. And very hungry.

“Sanha-ya,” Bin said, peering over the divider into the cubicle beside Minhyuk’s. “Get him to hurry up.”

“I need to finish this sentence,” Sanha said.

Bin made an unhappy mewling sound, not unlike a distressed kitten.

Dongmin rose up, cleared his throat.

Bin turned hopeful eyes on him. “Can  _ you _ get them to hurry up?”

“Probably not,” Dongmin said, “but I was going to say - I’d like to buy my colleagues lunch today, if you like. I know I wasn’t able to go to lunch yesterday, and I missed the company dinner when I first started, so -”

Sanha was out of his seat in an instant. “Minhyuk-hyung, hurry up. Free lunch.”

Minhyuk held up one hand, typed impressively fast with the other. “Almost...done!” Then he popped up and tugged on his jacket. “Where should we go?”

Bin said, “We should go to that new ramyeun place that just opened next to the kimbap place that’s down the same alley as the barbecue place.”

Minhyuk blinked. Sanha blinked.

“Sure,” Minhyuk said slowly, skeptically.

Dongmin said, a little louder, “Anyone else is welcome.”

A few people murmured polite refusals. Still others were very absorbed in their work and didn’t even acknowledge him.

Minhyuk said, “Let me see if Jinwoo-hyung wants to come.” He went and poked his head into the break room, had a murmured conversation.

So Minhyuk’s cousin really was the staff photographer Park Jinwoo.

A moment later he returned, and the person trailing behind him was the handsome man from yesterday, the one with the orange hair. The one who had avoided Dongmin in the break room. He took one look at Dongmin, said something to Minhyuk, bowed, and ducked back into the break room.

Bin’s mouth twisted in disappointment. He caught Minhyuk’s eye, and Minhyuk shook his head. Something grim passed between them, unspoken. Sanha looked disappointed as well.

“Don’t take it personally,” Minhyuk said as they headed for the elevators. “Cousin Jinwoo is going through a hard time right now. He lost someone very close to him.”

“Oh,” Dongmin said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Editor Ji gave him time off. He came back to work too soon, I think.” Bin’s tone was sympathetic.

“We can buy something for him and bring it back,” Dongmin said. “I know when I’m stressed out, I also feel shy.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Minhyuk said. 

“Once you get to know Jinwoo-hyung, you’ll like him,” Sanha said.

“Well, whenever he’s ready is fine by me.” Dongmin cleared his throat. “So, Minhyuk-ssi, do you have classical dance training? You seem to know the technical aspects of ballet really well.”

“I took ballet, jazz, tap, and hip-hop as a kid,” Minhyuk said. 

“Wow,” Dongmin said. “Do you still dance?”

Minhyuk nodded and explained that he and Bin had gone to the same music hagwon growing up. Sanha was a skilled guitarist and singer, but he was mostly home-taught by his father and older brothers. It was easy for Dongmin to keep conversation flowing, asking his new colleagues about their families and passions outside of the newspaper. He was a reporter, after all. He knew how to get a story.

He was curious about Jinwoo’s story, but he figured that was another story for another time.

* * *

After a pleasant lunch, the four of them returned to the newspaper offices, Minhyuk carrying a bowl of ramyeun takeout. Since the ramyeun restaurant had counted toward Bin’s next writing assignment, Sanha extracted a promise that Bin and Minhyuk would play a new video game with him. He invited Dongmin, but Dongmin demurred, since he wasn’t much into video games.

“Do you like musicals?” Minhyuk asked. “No one ever wants to go with me to those.”

“I do like musicals,” Dongmin said. “But wouldn’t it be better for you to take a date?”

“Minhyuk is married to his work,” Bin drawled.

“He means Minhyuk is bad at dating,” Sanha said.

Minhyuk protested. “Yah! I am not. I’ve dated more people than you have.”

Sanha looked at Dongmin. “You probably date anyone you want with how handsome you are.”

“I haven’t really dated anyone,” Dongmin said.

Bin stared at him. “What?”

“My father made me promise not to date until university, and then in university I was so busy studying -” and being terminally ill - “that I never really had the time.” Dongmin shrugged.

“Daebak. Someone with your face is motae solo. There’s no hope for me,” Sanha said.

“I’ve dated plenty.” Bin waved a dismissive hand. “If you ever want me to set you up with someone, let me know. What’s your ideal type? Curvy? Skinny? Long hair? My younger sister has lots of pretty friends.”

“I’m not really sure what my type is,” Dongmin admitted. He did know that his type wasn’t female, though.

Back at the bullpen, they parted ways, but not before Bin clapped Dongmin on the shoulder and said, 

“Thank you for lunch. I feel like we’ve become a lot closer.”

Dongmin nodded. He drifted back to his cubicle. Minhyuk, he noticed, headed across the bullpen to a cubicle in the far corner. Minhyuk set down the bowl of ramyeun takeout, sent a text message, and then he returned to his own desk. A moment later, Jinwoo appeared, fancy camera in hand. He smiled briefly when he saw the food, and Dongmin felt his heart thump oddly. Jinwoo was very handsome.

Maybe he was Dongmin’s type.

He looked up and caught Dongmin looking at him, and his expression went terribly blank. He looked away.

Dongmin winced internally and told himself to get back to work. He shouldn’t take it personally. Jinwoo was going through a hard time. Dongmin knew he’d been short-tempered and sometimes even cruel when he was at the worst of his illness, helpless and frustrated. 

No matter. He was better now. He had to take good care of himself and this precious second chance - and his new heart. 

And he had an article to write. What was the best way to corner Cha Eunho for an interview? Dongmin cracked his knuckles and set to researching. Lee Dongmin had been called the Wolfhound of the university newspaper for a reason. He always got his story.

* * *

Dongmin finally settled on a strategy to catch his target. He’d have to start by ingratiating himself with some of Cha Eunho’s colleagues at Gyeoroo Publishing, mostly the other founding members, but also some of the junior staff as well, the ones Cha Eunho had mentored, who might have his ear in a different way. 

Dongmin compiled a list of people he might want to contact, their contact information, and he set about building profiles on them, so he’d know some conversational ice-breakers or other ways to soften their attitude toward him. Gyeoroo was notoriously protective of Cha Eunho, but most of the company staff had active social media profiles, mostly related to promoting traditional publishing and Gyeoroo titles in particular. If Dongmin reviewed their posts, he’d learn a lot about them, their preferences and habits, and maybe find a way past their defenses.

An ache in Dongmin’s shoulders told him he’d been sitting for too long. He yawned and stretched - and then he noticed a little paper plate at his elbow, laden with a paper doily and some little cream-filled cannolis. They were topped with dark chocolate ganache curls, and they looked too rich for him, but -

They smelled amazing, the chocolate giving off a bitter tang.

Dongmin looked around, but whoever had given them to him was long gone. The sugar would give him a boost of energy, and it wasn’t like he could have any coffee. So he took a bite.

It tasted amazing - flaky pastry and cream melting on his tongue, chocolate filling his mouth with perfect bittersweetness. Dongmin couldn’t help it - he closed his eyes and hummed happily, doing a little dance in his seat. He gobbled down the rest of them, uncaring of the fact that there were three of them, and then he licked his lips, still humming, and dusted crumbs off his fingers. 

He threw the plate away in the break room as an excuse to get up and stretch his legs, and he fixed himself a mug of hot cocoa to go with the pastries. Dongmin ate as well as the next warm-blooded Korean man, but those pastries had really hit the spot in a way sweet things usually didn’t for him. Back at his desk, he gulped down his hot cocoa, and he scribbled a thank-you note on a post-it. As an afterthought, he decorated it with some hearts and smiley faces, and flowers, and then he stuck it to the top of his monitor so it would be easy to see.

Time to pound the pavement like a real reporter and get his story. He tugged on his jacket, made sure he had his notebook, wallet, a couple of pens, and his phone, and he headed for the door. He nearly crashed into someone, and he backpedaled rapidly.

Right. Slow down. Take a few deep breaths.

His heart was racing once more.

“I’m so sorry,” he began.

He’d almost knocked over poor Jinwoo, whose eyes went wide. He recoiled like he’d been burned, and he spun on his heel and walked away quickly before Dongmin could apologize further.

“I’m really very sorry!” Dongmin called after him. “I’ll buy you lunch later if you want, but I have to go now!”

He received strange looks from his coworkers, but he didn’t care, instead hurrying into the elevator. The Wolfhound was on the loose.

* * *

Dongmin crawled into bed much later than he ought to have, feeling pleased despite his exhaustion. He’d had a late dinner with Gyeoroo’s lead content development editor Song Haerin, whom Cha Eunho had directly mentored when she started at the company. Based on her SNS posts, she admired his work - and might have had a crush on him, though Dongmin wasn’t stupid enough to mention that - and she respected him as an editor, and she worked well with him. She’d probably be Dongmin’s best shot at getting an interview. Dongmin had done his best to charm her, putting all he’d learned in his high school and university literature classes to good use.

“You worked hard today,” he murmured to himself as he snuggled under the covers.

He plugged his phone in, set it on the nightstand, fluffed his pillow, and turned off the lamp.

Then he lay there in the dark, listening to the steady beat of his precious heart. His chest still ached sometimes, because the surgeons had sawed through his sternum to get his chest open, and his body was still healing even if he was past the worst of the post-operative pain. Dongmin laid his hand over his heart, mindful of the pain and the scar, and closed his eyes.

_ Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. _

Blood in, blood out. Muscle. Electrical impulses. Valves. Ventricles and atria. So many complicated pieces working in perfect harmony, in a harmony Dongmin’s own heart had never been capable of on its own. Dongmin had done very well in high school biology, but even before the section on anatomy and physiology, he’d learned the ins and outs of the human heart, because he’d spent most of his life feeling his own heart break down piece by piece.

Now he just had to love his new heart and his body, and he could have a long, joyful life.

Someone else had lost their life so he could have this chance.

_ Thank you, _ he whispered to the universe.  _ I’ll live well. _

He drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his own existence.

And he dreamed.

Someone was holding his hand.

Someone was crying.

“I love you, Junie.”

He wanted to answer, knew the words, but he couldn’t get them past his lips.

_ Love you too, Jinie. _

* * *

The next day, Dongmin was pleasantly surprised when Bin invited him to lunch with the rest of his friends. He agreed, because even if he didn’t make a lot of friends, getting closer to some of his coworkers might make him seem more approachable to other coworkers, and even if that didn’t work, he could at least honestly tell his mother that he was getting to know his coworkers and getting out more.

“Where’s your next writing assignment?” Minhyuk asked as he pulled on his jacket.

Bin rolled his eyes. “It’s not all about my writing assignments. I really like this one steel cut noodle place. Dongmin’s never been.”

Sanha winced. “I don’t know if Jinwoo will go.”

“He has to come to lunch with us sometime.” Minhyuk started toward the break room. How Jinwoo got any work done when he was always there was a mystery to Dongmin, but all of the articles for the Arts and Entertainment section had the pictures they needed.

“Yeah, but - you know. That person really liked that noodle place,” Sanha said.

Minhyuk paused, expression sober. “Oh.”

“We could go somewhere else,” Bin said. “The curry place. We - we all have been there before, but it wasn’t that person’s favorite or anything, so.”

“I’ll ask Jinwoo.” Minhyuk headed into the break room.

Bin cast Dongmin an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. You aren’t involved in any of this.”

“I understand Jinwoo is close to you all, and you care about his feelings. That’s admirable, especially among men, who aren’t so good at talking about their feelings,” Dongmin said. “I’m not very familiar with the restaurants around here, so I’m more than willing to trust your refined palate about where we should eat.”

“I am a professional,” Bin said, preening a little.

Sanha shoved his arm.

Minhyuk reappeared, Jinwoo trailing behind him. Dongmin smiled and inclined his head at Jinwoo, who stopped in his tracks, spun on his heel, and went back toward the breakroom.

“Hyung,” Minhyuk protested, darting after him.

Jinwoo tried to shake him off, but Minhyuk was strong. They had a low, rapid conversation, eyes narrowed, gesticulating sharply. It ended with Jinwoo swatting Minhyuk’s hand aside and stomping back into the break room.

Minhyuk sighed and returned to them. “Let’s just go. I can’t deal with him today.”

“Give him time,” Bin said. “It’s only been two months. They started dating their first year of high school.”

Dongmin hadn’t even had friends for that long a time. Dating someone for that long - they were practically married. Losing that person must have been like losing a spouse.

“It’s just lunch. If he keeps this up he could become a recluse,” Minhyuk said. “That’s not healthy.”

Dongmin cleared his throat. “Maybe he’ll go to lunch with you one time when I’m not around. I don’t mind. I can go with you another day -”

“Let’s just go,” Minhyuk said. He pushed past Dongmin and headed for the elevators.

“He really cares about Jinwoo,” Bin said. “We’re all worried about him. Just - in different ways. Also Minhyuk has been there for Jinwoo the most. Jinwoo’s parents didn’t really approve of who he was dating, so -”

So they weren’t being supportive of him during his time of loss. How sad. No wonder Jinwoo hadn’t married his significant other despite dating for so long. 

“I need your help for my next writing assignment anyway,” Sanha said as they reached the elevators where Minhyuk was waiting.

“You are a bit generous with those exclamation points,” Dongmin said.

“Not about that. I’m reviewing a new mobile game. I want to know what an inexperienced gamer thinks.” Sanha smiled at him hopefully.

Dongmin raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think I’m an inexperienced gamer?”

“You never play games on your phone,” Sanha said.

The elevator doors opened, and they all stepped into the car.

“Well, not while I’m at work,” Dongmin said.

“Yeah, but during coffee breaks or on elevator rides you totally could,” Sanha said. “I totally do. Bin does sometimes. Minhyuk does sometimes. But you probably don’t have any games on your phone.”

“I have Candy Crush and a word scramble game,” Dongmin said, though he wasn’t sure why he felt so indignant.

“I mean like a strategy RPG or something,” Sanha said.

The doors opened on the first floor, and they stepped out. On the sidewalk, Bin took the lead.

“Well, no,” Dongmin admitted.

“There’s a new mobile fantasy RPG I’d like you to try, just so I can get your opinion on its graphics, plot, and user friendliness for a new gamer as opposed to an experienced gamer like myself,” Sanha said.

“His mom and dad refuse to try any more games for him is what’s going on,” Bin said.

Sanha frowned but didn’t deny it.

“It was nice of your parents to help you, but I can understand why they might be tired of playing mobile games,” Dongmin said. “Sure, I’ll help you.”

Sanha lit up. “Thank you! Here, hand me your phone. I’ll start the download.”

Dongmin surrendered his cellphone, amused.

They ended up at the steel cut noodle restaurant after all. The middle-aged woman who ran the restaurant recognized all of them and was especially friendly to Bin. She showed them to a table by the window so they could enjoy the sunny weather even if it wasn’t very warm outside, and then she told them about the daily specials.

Since Dongmin was still getting to know his coworkers, he decided to let Bin order for him. Leaving his lunch fate in Bin’s hands was a way to build trust and grow closer. Also he was distracted by the game Sanha had downloaded onto his phone, and Bin had strong opinions about what was good to order.

Minhyuk ordered some noodles to go for Jinwoo again, and the restaurant owner agreed to bring a bowl out when they were ready to return to the office.

Once the noodles arrived, Dongmin set his phone aside and joined the others as they ate.

“Wow,” he said after his first mouthful. “This is amazing. You have such good taste in food. We should definitely be good friends.”

Bin nodded. “I’m glad you appreciate my fine taste.”

“This could use some pepper, though.” Dongmin grabbed the pepper shaker and seasoned his noodle soup some.

Minhyuk blinked. “I didn’t think anyone else ate steel cut noodles like that.”

Dongmin set the pepper shaker down. “I don’t usually eat noodles like this, but it seemed like a good idea.” He took a bite, smiled and hummed happily. “It was a great idea.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing Jinwoo didn’t come with us,” Minhyuk said slowly.

“Is he allergic to pepper?”

“Ah, no, but - his highschool sweetheart used to eat noodles like that,” Bin said.

Dongmin stared down at his bowl. “Oh.”

Minhyuk scrubbed a hand over his face.

Sanha tapped Dongmin on the arm. “Don’t forget the game.”

“Right.” Dongmin unlocked his phone and found the bright, cartoon-y app icon on his screen, and he launched the game again. 

The others leaned in to see, so he pushed his phone closer to the middle of the table to make it easier for them. It was a bit disconcerting, the way they focused on him while he walked through the initial setup, choosing a screen name and an avatar and the like. He didn’t linger on the choices for too long, just went with his default screen name of DongDaeMin and a little blue-hat wizard, and then the game finally started. He went through the tutorials dutifully, and after a couple of mock battles and learning how to cast spells and use items, he was ready to dive into the game properly.

“What do you think so far?” Sanha asked. He was recording on his phone.

“The art style is cute,” Dongmin offered. “And I like the background music and sound effects. It’s bit too cutesy for me, maybe?”

“What kinds of games do you prefer?” Sanha asked.

“Mostly I play computer chess with my dad and younger brother,” Dongmin admitted.

“No wonder you got into Seongdae,” Bin said.

“Maybe it’s also no wonder you’re motae solo, no matter how handsome you are,” Sanha said.

“Thanks,” Dongmin drawled. “Anyway, the tutorial isn’t too tedious. The game mechanics seem simple enough, but not too simple to make it boring. I can see how it could be really addicting. Not much of a storyline, though. I doubt I’d stick with it for long, but that’s just me. I like a good story.”

“Well, you are a reporter,” Minhyuk said.

Dongmin smiled. “That I am.”

“I think that’s what I need,” Sanha said. “Thank you!” He beamed.

Dongmin closed down the game but didn’t delete it off his phone. Maybe it would be a fun way to pass the time on the bus and train sometimes.

“Of course, I’ll add my own review as an experienced gamer, but it’s good to get both perspectives,” Sanha said.

“I agree,” Dongmin said. “Just don’t use too many exclamation points.”

That made the others laugh. Conversation drifted toward all their writing and interviewing habits. Minhyuk was known as The Question Fairy in the bullpen. He’d go from listening and observing so silently that people forgot he was there to a string of seemingly random questions in an instant, startling everyone.

“But their guard is down, and I get much more honest answers,” Minhyuk said.

Bin wagged his chopsticks. “Not everyone is out to deceive you.”

“But as critics, our opinions matter,” Minhyuk said. “We always get such good service at the places you’ve given positive reviews because a review can make or break a restaurant or a run of a production or anything else.”

“Bin is the most influential and famous of three of us, at least in official journalism circles,” Sanha said.

“You’re probably popular in the gaming circles, right?” Dongmin asked. “Since you run a gaming blog and also a gaming stream.

Sanha nodded. “That’s right. Did you do research on us?”

“I think I heard someone mention it one time. I’m good at remembering things.”

“Minhyuk’s popular in the dance community,” Bin said.

“Yeah, but not for his writing. For his ass,” Sanha said, and giggled when Minhyuk spluttered and turned bright red.

“There are worse things to be popular for,” Dongmin said.

Minhyuk grumbled into his noodle soup, still blushing furiously.

Once again, they got a meal to go for Jinwoo, and they headed back to the office together. Dongmin didn’t stick around to see Minhyuk give Jinwoo the food. He’d received an email from another of Cha Eunho’s associates at Gyeoroo Publishing, and he had to get on the road if he wanted to meet his contact in time, so he grabbed his jacket and field gear and departed straight away. 

As he headed for the train station, he felt his heart race with excitement. He was closing in on his quarry. He’d get this interview, and Editor Ji would see that he’d been worth keeping on despite his hospital stay interrupting his start at the paper.

Dongmin pressed a hand to his chest and felt the reassuring  _ thump thump thump. _

Yes, he could do this.

He sped up, headed for the entrance to the train station.

And felt his pulse surge. He paused, confused and a little nervous. He glanced down at his smartwatch, which monitored his heart rate for his doctors, then looked around to see if something had caught his attention, even subconsciously.

He glimpsed familiar soft orange hair in the crowd.

Park Jinwoo.

Dongmin hoped he made it back to the office before his lunch got cold. Then he shook himself out, took a deep breath, and hurried down the stairs and into the train station. He had a writer to catch.

* * *

The best part of waking up was waking up beside his beloved, sensing his warmth, smelling his skin as he snuggled close. He didn’t even have to open his eyes, just roll onto his side and shift a little bit, and then the other man was pressed up behind him, one arm slung across his hip.

For the first few moments of the day, he was perfectly warm and comfortable. Happy. Safe. 

Loved.

Dongmin opened his eyes.

He was dizzy and confused, heart pounding. He was alone in his bed in his apartment, and he was - 

Oh hell. Late for work.

Dongmin flung the covers aside and darted for the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went. He brushed his teeth with one hand while he scrubbed shampoo into his hair with the other. He did a pretty patchy job shaving and combing his hair, but at least he was in clean, mostly wrinkle-free clothes before he made it out the front door.

Halfway to the bus stop he felt his stomach growl. Right. Breakfast. Skipping breakfast was a poor choice. He’d get something from the vending machine once he made it to the office.

Only as soon as he was at the office he discovered his email inbox was flooded with messages, half of which were requests for book reviews, the other half of which were requests for phone calls to schedule interviews for the authors whose books people wanted him to review, and Dongmin thought he might lose his mind, trying to type coherent replies while he had his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear and an overly enthusiastic junior editor talking up her newest writer.

“Poetry is difficult to publish, it’s true,” Dongmin said, trying to get a word in edgewise, but she bowled right over him.

His stomach gurgled very loudly.

Dongmin froze.

The woman said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Just - static interference,” Dongmin said. “Sorry. You were saying?” Wait, no, he should have taken that chance to get her to commit to an interview date at least three weeks out, because his primary assignment was the Cha Eunho article.

When he finally hung up the phone, his stomach was actually cramping, and his head ached. Low blood sugar. Or possibly low blood pressure. He was supposed to eat regular meals. He had to maintain his health, for his heart. No, he wasn’t in nearly as delicate a condition as he’d been in before the transplant, but -

But he should get some food. Right now.

There was a small wrapped triangle kimbap on the corner of his desk. It was ordinary, like the kind from a convenience store. But it was perfect.

Dongmin didn’t hesitate, stripped the wrapper off and wolfed it down in a few bites. Then he wrote a thank-you note on a sticky, decorated it with some hearts and flowers and a smiling sun, and after it was posted on the top edge of his monitor for maximum visibility he headed into the break room to fix himself a mug of hot cocoa.

“Hey, are you busy tonight?” Minhyuk asked.

Dongmin looked up from where he was stirring cocoa powder into his mug. “Not really. Why?” He really hoped Minhyuk wasn’t going to try to set him up on a blind date or something awkward.

“I have two tickets to the latest run of Billy Elliot and Sanha and Bin both turned me down.” Minhyuk beamed and framed his face with his hands, fluttering his fingers, and he went from serious journalist critic to sweet-faced boy in an instant.

Dongmin’s heart fluttered a little bit. “Ah - what about your cousin? It might do him some good to get out.”

“I asked him, but he plans on staying in tonight.” Minhyuk’s smile dimmed.

“Oh. Well - sure, I’ll accompany you. I like musicals.”

“Great!” Minhyuk lit up again. “I was in a run of Billy Elliot when I was a kid, but then a soccer injury sidelined my dancing career for a bit, and now here I am.”

“So you have all kinds of insider knowledge about the production.”

Minhyuk nodded.

That would make for an interesting evening. “What time should I meet you?”

“Show starts at seven,” Minhyuk said. “We could get dinner with Bin and Sanha beforehand. Pretty sure Bin has an upscale Italian restaurant he needs to review, and it’s near the theater.”

“I never say no to good Italian food,” Dongmin said.

“Oh yeah? Tomato sauce or cream sauce?” Minhyuk asked.

“Is this one of those friendship question things?”

“Just answer.”

“Ordinarily I’d say tomato sauce, but now that you mention it, I am craving cream sauce.” Dongmin sipped some of his hot cocoa. Its instant sweetness made him hum happily.

Minhyuk stared at him. “Right.”

“What do people have against cream sauce?”

“It’s not that,” Minhyuk said.

“What is it?” Dongmin said.

Minhyuk tilted his head. “You’re just - not what I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you first started working here, you were so quiet. Distant. A bit aloof. You seemed so serious all the time. But you’re actually very lively. Sweet. Bright.” Minhyuk studied him.

“I’m shy around new people,” Dongmin admitted. And before, he’d been living with a clock silently ticking in the back of his mind, tick-tick-ticking away till his time ran out, till his number was up, till his heart stopped beating. And that made it hard to care about anything. About doing well in school or making friends. He’d done well in school because sports hadn’t been an option for him, and he’d kept on pushing forward because he knew his parents were hanging onto hope tooth and nail, and if he gave up they’d never be able to keep going. “But things are different now.”

He had his whole life to look forward to now. He pressed a hand to his heart and smiled.

“What’s different?” Minhyuk asked. His gaze was intense, searching.

Right. He was a reporter. They were all reporters. They were all always looking for a story.

Dongmin smiled. “I’m different. I’m trying to do better.”

Minhyuk nodded. “Fair enough. Meet at the elevators after work, all right? Bin has to lead us to the restaurant.” He didn’t look convinced about Dongmin’s explanation, though, and something told Dongmin that this conversation wasn’t entirely over.

But Dongmin nodded and agreed to meet the others, and he headed back to his desk.

On the way there, he nearly ran into Park Jinwoo, who seemed to have the misfortune of always being right in the path of where Dongmin wanted to go.

Dongmin paused, took a step back. “Apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so careless.”

“It’s fine.” Jinwoo ducked his head, avoiding his gaze.

“I owe you lunch, for all the other times I’ve almost bowled you over,” Dongmin said.

Jinwoo shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Really.”

Dongmin resisted the urge to ask why Jinwoo disliked him, because he knew better than to take Jinwoo’s current emotional distress personally. Instead he said, “If you like, I can turn down the others when they invite me to lunch sometimes, so you can go with them.”

Jinwoo glanced at him briefly but said nothing.

“I know it would make all of them, especially Minhyuk, feel better if you went. Not that it should be your burden to make them feel better, but - it might make you feel better if you went, too.” Dongmin smiled tentatively.

“It’s fine,” Jinwoo said again, and stepped around him and continued on his way.

Dongmin watched him go, feeling helpless and something else, something that ached behind his breastbone. Jinwoo’s sadness was almost palpable. But there was nothing else Dongmin could do, Dongmin who was a stranger, who didn’t know anything about Jinwoo’s relationship or the person he’d loved.

So Dongmin headed back to his desk and kept on working.

He’d wait till Jinwoo was ready to tell his story.

* * *

Dinner with Bin and the others was amazing, if only because the food was so delicious. For added entertainment value, the waitress kept hitting on Minhyuk, and Minhyuk didn’t know what to do, especially with Bin and Sanha egging her on. Dongmin ordered cream sauce with his pasta, and it hit the spot, so he was well-fed and happy as he accompanied Minhyuk to the theater for the production of Billy Elliot.

Dongmin had never been anything but a casual fan of musicals, enjoying the unique storytelling format that the combination of music and dance afforded, as well as the talent of the performers. He applauded and cheered, whereas Minhyuk was disturbingly silent beside him, face blank, seemingly unmoved by everything. But at the end he was on his feet and cheering, and then he grabbed Dongmin’s wrist and hurried out of the theater and around to the stage door where a giant man in a security uniform let them backstage so Minhyuk could interview the performers. Dongmin played dutiful assistant, holding Minhyuk’s phone to record statements while Minhyuk consulted a list of questions in a notebook.

By the time Minhyuk had interviewed all of the principal actors and some of his favorite members of the chorus, it was quite late. One of the principal actors had been in the same production of Billy Elliot that Minhyuk had been in as a child, and he invited Minhyuk out to the cast party. Dongmin knew he wasn’t really invited even though someone offered to let him ride in a taxi with them, so he congratulated the performers, bade Minhyuk farewell, and returned to the newspaper offices to work on organizing his Cha Eunho article some more.

Dongmin had drafted the introduction and was pretty happy with it, but it was quite different from his original plan, so he had to re-plot the rest of the article and re-draft his interview questions. But he was tired. If he quit now, he’d lose his writing momentum, so he didn’t dare go home, not yet, because he wanted to avoid working from home as much as possible to maintain work-life balance. He set a timer on his watch, folded his arms, and lay his head down. Fifteen minutes was a power nap. Fifteen minutes and he’d be back to work. 

He closed his eyes.

He was warm and happy. Someone was wrapped around him, solid and comforting. He felt a hand on his cheek, a brief caress. He smiled. Life was perfect. Even though he was tired and had worked hard, he was home safe now. He was loved. Nothing in the world could hurt him so long as his Jinie was near.

Dongmin came awake breathing hard.

His watch buzzed on his wrist. He stopped the timer and sat back in his chair, hand pressed to his chest, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He hadn’t overslept his timer too long. And then he realized - there was a blanket around his shoulders.

Dongmin reached out, tugged up where it was slipping down. It was fleece, warm, knotted at the edges, possibly handmade. Who had given it to him? He didn’t recognize it. He craned his neck and scanned the bullpen, but it was empty. Who else had been working this late? When he’d arrived, it had been empty, save the cleaning crew. Maybe someone on the cleaning crew had covered him? It wouldn’t be the first time a nice old ahjumma had taken pity on him on account of his handsome face.

Dongmin called out, “Thank you!”

There was no response.

Dongmin found his sticky pad and wrote a note, added some more hearts and flowers and even a drawing of a little chick in an egg - which looked really good, considering that Dongmin wasn’t usually good at drawing. He added a note that he would buy his benefactor a very nice meal, even Korean beef, and then he stuck it to the top of his monitor, where it would most likely be seen, and then he set to work.

It was nearly three in the morning when Dongmin finally stumbled out to the sidewalk to hail a taxi home. He’d received a text message from Minhyuk confirming his own safe arrival home, and then several messages encouraging him to go home. But it was Friday night, and Dongmin had all weekend to catch up on sleep.

The entire taxi ride home, he dozed against the window, and he felt incredibly cold and lonely, and he wasn’t sure why.

* * *

“The only reason I’m even meeting you is because you were very persistent, and also you wooed Song Haerin with your untouched face.” Cha Eunho sat opposite Dongmin in a high-end cafe down the street from Gyeoroo Publishing.

Dongmin said, “Song Haerin-ssi is a hardworking editor and she respects you very much. My face has nothing to do with it.”

Cha Eunho arched an eyebrow.

“She used to have a longstanding crush on you. I can hardly compare,” Dongmin said.

“Did she tell you that?”

“I did my research before I met with her.” 

“Someone else told you that?”

“I read her SNS posts.” Dongmin shrugged.

Eunho narrowed his eyes. “And you could just tell?”

“You’re not surprised, so I’m not the only one who could tell,” Dongmin said.

Eunho picked up his cup of coffee. His legs were crossed at the knee, his posture closed and defensive even if he seemed calm. “Well, what did you want to ask me? About Kang Byeongjun?”

The famous writer Kang Byeongjun, who’d just died, whose absence during years of dementia had been one of the greatest mysteries in the publishing industry, was big news.

Dongmin shook his head. “The chronology you wrote for him speaks for itself.”

“About me?”

Dongmin nodded.

“Then what do you want to know?”

“You hate being a famous writer. You go to some extreme lengths to avoid fans. But you published an internet novel when you were young, an internet novel that went viral. Why?”

Eunho shrugged. “Because I wanted to tell a story.” He sipped at his coffee.

Something about his nonchalance seemed feigned. 

“You knew you were a talented writer before you posted,” Dongmin said. “In your essays and creative writing assignments -”

Eunho spluttered and nearly choked on his coffee. “You  _ saw _ those?”

“They’re in a binder in the university library at your alma mater for anyone who cares to look,” Dongmin said. He continued. “Based on your tone and general attitude in your analytical essays, you cared about telling a story for the act of storytelling, for the exercise of writing words, not necessarily for people to read what you’d written. You don’t need an audience to tell a story. So why post in the first place? You didn’t need approval from netizens, if your professors’ marginalia is any indication, given their stellar reviews of your work.”

Eunho leaned in and studied Dongmin intently. “Who  _ are _ you?”

Dongmin tapped his ID badge, which was hanging around his neck on a lanyard with the newspaper’s name on it.

Finally, Eunho said, “I didn’t post the story.”

Dongmin had suspected as much. “Who did? It must have been someone close to you, to even know that you wrote, that they had access to the entire story.”

Eunho said, “She saved my life, when I was a child. She was the one who taught me to love reading, too.” His expression, for just one moment, was beautifully fond.

Dongmin sat back in his chair. “You’re in love with her.”

Eunho cast him a sharp look.

“I can leave that part out of my story. So a trusted friend of yours posted the story for you. You didn’t immediately take it down even though your anonymity as a Korean literature student was shattered as a result. Why agree to publish any subsequent work?”

“Because I had a story to tell, and if I couldn’t tell her, maybe telling other people would be enough.”

“And now?”

“Now I love working at Gyeoroo, and publishing through them helps keep the company going.” Eunho bit his lip. “You won’t say it quite like that, will you?”

“I’ll send you a draft of the article before I turn it in to my editor,” Dongmin said.

Eunho said, “I like you. What else do you want to know?”

“What are you willing to tell me? About your process, about your inspiration.” The things he hadn’t told other reporters. Dongmin had been recording their conversation from the start, because he didn’t want to miss a word.

“I’ll do my best to explain it, but as a writer yourself, I’m sure you know that some parts are instinctive. In our blood. As natural as breathing, as our hearts beating.” Eunho leaned in and smiled.

Dongmin took a deep breath and listened to his own heartbeat for a moment. Then he flagged down the waitress and asked for refills on their coffee and hot cocoa. Once the coffee arrived, he fired up his real list of questions and set to work.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Eunho sat back in his seat. “I think that’s all I can tell you. You’ve drained me dry.”

“I appreciate your candor.” Dongmin smiled and shut off the recording app on his phone, which he’d had to plug in halfway through the interview.

“Since we’re off the record now, I’m curious. What drives you to write, Lee Dongmin?” Eunho considered him.

“Like you, I want to tell stories.”

“Why stories about other people? Why not your own stories?”

“These  _ are _ my own stories,” Dongmin said. 

“But they’re not about you, or anything you’ve dreamed up.” Eunho leaned in and rested his chin in his hand. 

If Dongmin didn’t know that Eunho had been harboring a love for over two decades, he might have called the man’s pose flirtatious.

“They’re not about me, but they still show my readers who I am - the work I’ve put in, the efforts I’ve made, the perspectives I’ve considered.” Dongmin finished sipping his cocoa, and he set the mug aside.

“You never dreamed up your own stories?” Eunho asked. He tilted his head and looked - not disappointed. Sad.

“I’ve never been much of a dreamer,” Dongmin said.

“When you were sixteen and first starting high school, where did you think you’d be, at the age you are now? What are you - twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three,” Dongmin said, because he’d had to put his schooling on hold more than once to undergo bridge procedures to keep him alive a little longer till a donor heart became available.

“When you were sixteen, where did you think you’d be when you were twenty-four?” Eunho asked.

Maybe it was the fact that Cha Eunho had been unwaveringly honest with Dongmin in a way few people had ever been; maybe it was the fact that they’d been together for two hours straight; or maybe it was just because Dongmin had never dared to say this aloud, and Eunho was basically a stranger, and the danger had passed.

“Dead,” Dongmin said.

Eunho recoiled.

Dongmin hastened to explain. “I have a chronic heart condition. Had. The doctors thought I wouldn’t live to see twenty-one. I managed to survive past that, and then a couple of months ago a donor heart became available.”

“And you never dreamed about what your life would be life after a heart transplant?” Eunho asked.

Dongmin looked away. The first rule of being a reporter was  _ find _ the story, not  _ be _ the story. But he figured he owed Eunho some honesty after all. “The odds of finding a donor heart were very slim, and then there was no guarantee a transplant would be successful. It was best not to get my hopes up.”

Eunho looked appalled. “How did you even get out of bed in the morning?”

“I don’t know about you, but I hate seeing my mother cry.”

“You’ve really lived your entire life waiting to die and trying not to make your mother cry?”

“And finding stories to tell. Stories that I hope will outlive me,” Dongmin said.

Eunho drained his coffee mug and set it aside. “I hope from now on you start to dream. About something. Anything. An adventure. Happiness. Love.”

Dongmin thought of the strange dreams he’d been having, about being happily in love. He said, “Thank you. And thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

“Thank you for working so hard to see me,” Eunho said. “And if you ever decide you want to try your hand at writing a different kind of story, let me know.”

Dongmin had never even considered it, but he nodded. “Thank you, Eunho-ssi. That’s very generous of you.”

They rose, and Dongmin bowed before Eunho departed. Then Dongmin flagged down the waitress to ask for a check, and he packed up his notebook and phone and charger, and he wondered. What should he dream of?

He headed back to the newspaper offices, and he set to work. He put on a pair of headphones and turned up some Chopin, and he wrote. He wrote till the first draft of the article - too long, too wordy, too meandering - was down on the page. Then he opened a new document, turned on the recording of his interview with Cha Eunho, and he started making notes - timestamps of quotes he wanted to use, other stories he wanted to tell. Once he was finished with that, he set to writing another article, one comprised of the other stories he wanted to tell, the little anecdotes that were heartwarming but were from tangents and nonsequiturs.

When that was finished, he sent both documents to the printer, and he walked to the convenience store down the street to buy some ramyeun and triangle kimbap for dinner. When he got back to his desk, with both documents on hand, he set about marking them up, finding the places that needed shoring up with direct quotes, crossing things out, cross-referencing the two documents with each other. Then he took another walk to get a snack and a drink that wasn’t hot cocoa, and when he got back, he set about writing the second draft of his article.

Dongmin didn’t remember falling asleep at his desk.

He woke, and the entire bullpen was dark. Someone had covered him with another fleece blanket, one he didn’t recognize. He sat up and winced at the burn in his neck and shoulders. When he stretched, there were alarming popping sounds in his joints. He stood up and looked around - and saw a faint glow coming from a cubicle on the other side of the room. So he wasn’t alone. Whoever was still here must have been the person who’d covered him with the blanket. Dongmin folded it carefully, then crossed the bullpen to return it to his coworker.

In the blue glare from the computer monitor, Dongmin couldn’t recognize who it was at first, and then he recognized the soft orange hair, the oversized sweater, the gold-rimmed glasses.

Park Jinwoo.

He was watching a video on his monitor of a handsome young man - high cheeks, bright wide smile, fluffy-looking bleached-blond hair - singing at a noraebang. It took Dongmin a moment to recognize the song, because even though the man had a beautiful voice - tenor, sweet and clear, with soaring high notes - his English pronunciation was atrocious.

My Heart Will Go On. The most popular song in the world the year Dongmin had been born. Dongmin hated it. His mother had loved it, when he was young, but as soon as his parents realized why their little Dongmin was frail and sick all the time, it was banned from the house. When Dongmin was older, he watched the movie it was from (one rare day when his parents let him stay home by himself for a long while), and he like Leonardo DiCaprio, appreciated the cinematic grandeur of the movie from the time when it was made, but that song.

Had always seemed like a hollow promise, a beautiful lie, taunting him.

It wasn’t a lie anymore.

The man in the video finished singing and bowed, and whoever was with him at the noraebang clapped and cheered and shouted.

And then the audience, whoever was behind the camera, started to sing as well. Happy birthday to Dear Myungjunnie. Myungjun clapped, delighted.

Jinwoo stopped the video and sat back with a sigh.

Dongmin cleared his throat. “He sings beautifully.”

Jinwoo yelped and shot out of his seat.

Dongmin stepped back quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He held out the folded blanket. “Thank you for this. And - thank you for taking care of me. I don’t know why you are, but thank you. Are you the one who leaves me food, too?”

“Get away from me.” Jinwoo’s voice shook. With fear or rage, Dongmin couldn’t tell.

He set the blanket down on the desk beside Jinwoo’s and stepped back further, hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said again, confused and a little hurt. “I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were working.”

“I can’t be around you,” Jinwoo said. “I just - can’t. Please go.”

Jinwoo probably worked late often so he could avoid his coworkers.

“Of course. I’m very sorry.” Dongmin rushed back to his desk. He packed up his things with shaking hands, and he hurried out of the building, shivered on the sidewalk while he waited for a cab because he’d left his jacket behind but didn’t dare return.

Why was Jinwoo so upset with him? Had Dongmin done something to offend him and didn’t remember it? He didn’t remember much about his first month at the paper, because everything was new and overwhelming and he was exhausted all the time because he was getting worse and didn’t realize it because the tracking function on his watch had been turned off, and -

It wasn’t just Dongmin. That was insane. Jinwoo was still in a very sensitive place, and Dongmin had to accept that. He shouldn’t take it personally.

Dongmin hated the look on Jinwoo’s face, the way he looked so afraid and hurt. What could he do to make Jinwoo feel better? Or was there just nothing at all? On the taxi ride home, Dongmin pondered. Jinwoo had been kind to him, was obviously a naturally kind person. He’d never stepped up to claim credit for being kind to Dongmin, so he didn’t care to have anyone bring attention to what he’d done. Dongmin should ask Minhyuk and the others what he could do to help Jinwoo feel better. And maybe he should ask if he’d done something to Jinwoo to offend him, something he couldn’t remember or just hadn’t realized was an insult. Although why would Jinwoo be so kind to Dongmin if Dongmin had, even unwittingly, been unkind to Jinwoo?

Eventually, Dongmin lay in his bed in the darkness, staring at nothing, and puzzled over the problem of Jinwoo. Every time he pictured Jinwoo’s face, the hurt in his eyes, his chest tightened, his heart aching. He never wanted to see Jinwoo unhappy again.

But why? Jinwoo was essentially a total stranger.

The question followed Dongmin into troubled dreams.

_ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back as often as I could have. I love you. I’ll always love you. Thank you for keeping your promise to me, even in this small way.” _

The voice was familiar, deep.

Hot tears landed on Dongmin’s skin.

_ “I love you, Junie.” _

Dongmin writhed and strained, fighting to open his eyes, to speak. He had to say it back. He  _ had _ to.

_ “I love you, Jinie.” _

* * *

“You look terrible,” Sanha said when Dongmin stepped into the bullpen.

“I worked very late last night.” Dongmin shuffled over to his desk and dropped down into his chair without even taking off his coat.

“But you actually spoke to Cha Eunho in person, so it was worth it,” Editor Ji said as he breezed past.

Dongmin flashed him a wan smile.

Minhyuk popped up beside Sanha at Dongmin’s desk. “You worked really late Friday night and again last night. You should take care of yourself.”

Dongmin eyed him. “Have you been talking to my mother?”

Minhyuk’s expression turned shifty.

Dongmin sat up straighter.  _ “Have _ you been talking to my mother?” She’d raised him and Donghwi quite strictly, insisted that they manage themselves - when it came to their schoolwork and behavior. When it came to Dongmin’s health, though, she would totally reach out to one of his coworkers and ask them to keep an eye on him. She’d have done the same thing with his college roommate had she actually allowed him to go live in the dorms.

“No,” Minhyuk said quickly. He sighed and scrubbed the back of his neck. “It - Jinwoo worries about you. He - he asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Dongmin stared at him. “Jinwoo? I thought he hated me.”

“What?” Sanha asked. “Why?”

“He never eats lunch with you when I’m around, and whenever I go anywhere near him he practically runs the other way,” Dongmin said. “And last night, we were both the only ones here pretty late, and - he told me to get away from him.”

Sanha and Minhyuk exchanged looks. 

“What is it?” Dongmin asked. “Did I do something to offend him, something I don’t remember? Or did I offend his girlfriend, the one who passed?”

His heart beat wildly. He was so confused. Did Jinwoo like him or hate him? Why did Dongmin make him so upset? What could Dongmin do to apologize? He just wanted Jinwoo to be happy. 

Why did he want Jinwoo to be happy? 

Did Dongmin have a crush on him? Because Jinwoo was very handsome, and a talented photographer. 

But Dongmin barely knew him. 

He pressed a hand to his chest, startled by the ache there. 

“Girlfriend? Whose girlfriend?” Bin appeared beside Minhyuk and Sanha, eyes alight with curiosity. “Do you have a girlfriend, Dongmin-ssi?”

“What? No. I was asking about Jinwoo’s girlfriend,” Dongmin said.

Bin frowned. “Jinwoo had a boyfriend.”

Sanha and Minhyuk both hissed at him, but Dongmin shook his head.

“I’m not small-minded about that kind of thing. But there’s something you’re not telling me. Did I offend Jinwoo’s boyfriend or something? I - there’s a lot I don’t remember, from before I went to the hospital.” Dongmin looked at the three of them.

“Jinwoo’s boyfriend used to work here at the paper with us,” Bin said slowly. “But I don’t know if you ever met him, so no, I don’t think you offended him. What makes you think you did?”

“Because Jinwoo hates me, and I can’t think of any other reason why he would.” Dongmin forced himself to take a deep breath. The heat prickling under his skin meant his blood pressure was rising. He had to stay calm.

“Jinwoo doesn’t hate you, he’s just shy,” Bin said. “And also - also you probably remind him of Myungjun-hyung, a bit.”

Myungjun. The name was familiar. Why? Dongmin wracked his brain. And then he remembered - from the video last night, that Jinwoo had been watching. Happy Birthday Myungjun. The singer. Beautiful voice. Abysmal English pronunciation.

“But I don’t look anything like him,” Dongmin said. 

“Well, no, Myungjun was short, and his face was very different,” Bin said.

“Not that he wasn’t handsome,” Dongmin said quickly.

Minhyuk cleared his throat. “It’s just - sometimes the things you do are just like the things he did. When you eat something really tasty, you close your eyes and smile and do that little dance in your chair.”

“I do that?” Dongmin frowned.

“Also the way you decorate your sticky notes, with the suns and hearts and smileys,” Sanha said.

Dongmin glanced at his desk, at the sticky notes surrounding his monitor, most of them written in gratitude for food and snacks from his anonymous benefactor. “I don’t always do that,” he said.

“Some of the food you like,” Bin said. “You like some of the same food as him, or eat it the same weird way he did.”

Dongmin eyed the three of them. “Since I never knew Myungjun, I can’t really disagree. But how would Jinwoo know that? He’s never spent time with me.”

“Everyone’s noticed it,” Minhyuk said.

“Everyone?” Dongmin echoed.

The other three nodded.

Dongmin darted a glance at the rest of his coworkers, who were going about the bullpen on regular business. A couple of them caught his eye and smiled at him, but more than one of them avoided him.

“But - I’m me,” Dongmin said.

“You are,” Sanha said quickly. “But for Jinwoo-hyung, it’s kind of painful. He and Myungjun had been together since high school.” 

Minhyuk lowered his voice, and Dongmin stepped closer to hear better. 

“Myungjun’s parents never approved of the relationship, and Jinwoo’s parents didn’t either, and after the accident, at the hospital, Myungjun’s family wouldn’t let Jinwoo anywhere near him. He never got to say goodbye properly.”

“That’s awful.” Dongmin felt his chest ache all over again. No wonder Jinwoo was still upset. He hadn’t had the opportunity to seek real closure.

“The car accident was really bad, and Myungjun was in a coma. There was a chance he could have come out of it, if the doctors had waited, and Jinwoo wanted them to wait, but he didn’t have a say, and after Myungjun’s family arrived…” Bin trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

“Jinwoo doesn’t hate you,” Minhyuk said. “It’s just - really hard for him to be around you.”

Dongmin bit his lip. “Is there anything I can do to help him feel better?”

The other three looked at each other, shrugged.

“Just give him time, I suppose.” Minhyuk sighed.

“The other day, I told him I’d skip going to lunch with you sometimes, so he could go with you,” Dongmin said.

“When you first started working here, you were so different.” Bin tilted his head and studied Dongmin. “You and Myungjun were as different as night and day. You were quiet, serious. He was loud, silly. Everything you did was neat and precise and professional. He was loud and chaotic and tried to make everything as cute as possible. What changed? Or were you just shy because you were new?”

What had changed for Dongmin? He had a new heart. But a new heart wouldn’t give him a new personality. Yes, he had a new lease on life, but -

“Jinie and Junie were the perfect couple.” Sanha sighed longingly. “I hope I’m in a relationship like that someday.”

Dongmin stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I hope I’m in a relationship like that someday,” Sanha said.

“No. Before that.” Dongmin’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Jinwoo and Myungjun were the perfect couple?” Sanha offered.

“That’s not what you said,” Dongmin pressed.

Bin nudged Sanha. “You called them Jinie and Junie.” To Dongmin he explained, “That’s what they called each other.” His expression turned distant but fond at the memory.

Jinie and Junie.

Jinwoo and Myungjun.

Impossible.

Dongmin cleared his throat. “Where was Myungjun laid to rest?”

The others stared at him.

Dongmin said, “So I can pay my respects.”

It was an odd request, because Dongmin had never met him, but they didn’t question him. Minhyuk gave Dongmin the address of the columbarium where Myungjun’s cremation urn was kept. Dongmin thanked him, and then he sat down at his desk.

He had work to do.

* * *

The entire day, Dongmin was hyperaware of his heart beating in his chest, of the jump of his pulse at his throat and wrists, of his own breath, of every rise and fall of his chest. How he got any work done, he didn’t know.

He didn’t see Jinwoo at all.

After work, he shut down his computer, bade his coworkers farewell, and headed for the elevator. In the elevator, he searched on his phone for the nearest flower shop, and he bought a bouquet. Then he drifted into the train station with the rest of the after-work crowd, and he rode the train to a bus terminal, and he climbed on a bus to Suwon, and he sat in total silence, staring at the flowers, for the half-hour ride there. At the bus terminal in Suwon, he hailed a taxi to the address Minhyuk had given him.

The columbarium was a simple, understated structure, mostly glass walls, but with modern stone walls and chrome hardware on the doors. It stood in the corner of the cemetery surrounded by low stone benches, well-kept lawns, several sculpted junipers, and white rose bushes. Dongmin checked his phone for the directions Minhyuk had given him to the appropriate niche, then headed into the building.

He didn’t have to search very hard, because he found Jinwoo standing in front of a glass-enclosed case that was lined with various urns, family photos, and mementos.

Kim Myungjun had been beautiful, his smile pure sunshine. He’d been an elfin-faced child, full of mischief and laughter. If the other pictures were any indication, he’d taken after his mother quite a lot. And he’d been a talented artist, one of his own small watercolor paintings tucked in with his press badge and a small trophy for an art award at the Gunpo Azalea festival.

There were no pictures of Jinwoo, or Minhyuk and Sanha and Bin.

Jinwoo clutched a bouquet of flowers, his hands white-knuckled. His face was wet with tears.

Dongmin said, “I’m sorry.”

Jinwoo’s breath hitched, but he said nothing.

Dongmin said, “I’m sorry I’m here and he’s not.” 

Jinwoo bit his lip and closed his eyes, and his shoulders shook. The bouquet tumbled from his hands. Dongmin stooped and picked it up. Then he placed it in one of the metal holders beside Myungjun’s niche. He placed his own bouquet in the holder on the other side, and he stepped back.

He studied Myungjun’s face. He’d only been three years older than Dongmin. He’d served in the Marines. He really was beautiful. No wonder Jinwoo had been in love with him.

Jinwoo took a deep, shaky breath.

Dongmin said, “How did you know? You knew from day one.”

“His parents wouldn’t let me see him at the hospital, wouldn’t let me say goodbye, but after they took him off life support - the doctor took pity on me. Told me his heart would go to someone else, save his life. He couldn’t tell me who, of course - but if I just happened upon a certain hospital room where the recipient was sleeping, I could say goodbye.” 

Dongmin had never heard Jinwoo say so much. His voice was deep, soothing. And utterly familiar.

“The others say I’m like him.”

“Sometimes it feels like you  _ are _ him, and I can’t -”

“I’m not him,” Dongmin said gently.

Jinwoo lifted his head, looked into Dongmin’s eyes. “You have his heart.”

Dongmin nodded. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“Will you? Because you skip meals and you work till three in the morning -”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Dongmin said again. He held Jinwoo’s gaze.

Finally Jinwoo nodded. “Live well, all right? Live a good life.”

Dongmin nodded. “I promise.”

Jinwoo started to turn away.

Dongmin said, “Do you want to say goodbye?”

Jinwoo frowned, puzzled.

Dongmin held his arms out. After a moment, Jinwoo stepped closer to him, closer. With a shaky exhale, he leaned in and rested his head against Dongmin’s chest. Listened to his heart. Dongmin wrapped his arms around Jinwoo and held him tightly.

_ I love you, Jinie. _

Dongmin closed his eyes and did his best to envelop Jinwoo in his - Myungjun’s - warmth.

Jinwoo leaned up and kissed him.

The kiss was slow and soft, sweet and sad.

It was a kiss goodbye.

Jinwoo pulled back, and Dongmin opened his eyes.

Jinwoo said, “Go on, Junie.” And he walked away.

Dongmin watched him leave, stood there till Jinwoo’s footsteps had faded into silence. Then he turned to Myungjun’s final resting place, gazed at his smiling face.

“Thank you for giving me this second chance,” he said. “I’m sorry it cost you everything. I can never repay you. But I’ll do everything in my power to make sure we both go on for a long time, all right?”

Of course, there was no reply. But Dongmin could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, and he knew that was enough.

* * *

When Dongmin stepped into the bullpen the next day, it was abuzz with excitement.

“What’s going on?” He shrugged off his coat and laid it on the back of his chair.

“Jinwoo’s quitting.” Bin’s expression was grim.

But Jinwoo was smiling, shaking hands with his coworkers. Dongmin had never seen him truly smile before, and his heart skipped a beat. He, too, was beautiful.

“Does he have a new job lined up?” Dongmin asked.

“Actually, yes. A correspondence gig,” Sanha said.

“It’s probably a good thing,” Minhyuk said, though he was watching his cousin with concerned eyes. “A fresh start.”

“Does he enjoy traveling?” Dongmin asked.

“He never really had the chance before,” Minhyuk said.

“Korea’s his home. He’ll always come back,” Bin said, patting Minhyuk’s shoulder. “He still has family here.”

Sanha patted Minhyuk’s other shoulder. “You were always worried that he didn’t take enough time off anyway. This will be like time off, but he’ll still be getting paid.”

“I think he’ll be fine,” Dongmin said.

Minhyuk eyed him. “Did you finally talk to him?”

“We said what needed to be said.”

“I told you he didn’t hate you,” Minhyuk said.

“I would have understood if he did,” Dongmin said. “But you were right. He doesn’t hate me.”

Sanha prodded Dongmin. “Did you chase him off?”

“Yah,” Bin said lightly. “Dongmin’s not like that.”

“I hope he’ll come back, and that he’ll be happier when he does,” Dongmin said. “Since today is his last day, though, you all should have lunch with him without me.”

“Maybe he’ll finally eat lunch with you too, now that you’ve talked,” Minhyuk said.

“Maybe he would, but you’re his friends and family. Tonight at the party there will be too many people around for you to say proper goodbyes.” Dongmin patted Minhyuk on the shoulder. “Now we all have to get to work. Come on.”

The other three scattered to their respective desks, and Dongmin turned to his own computer. Now that the Cha Eunho article was with the editors, Dongmin could focus on his next assignment, which was a book review and another author interview. With how good Dongmin’s grades had been, his parents were surprised when he didn’t want to become a doctor or a lawyer, but he loved literature, and he loved books, and with this job he got paid to read. So he picked up the first book on the stack on his desk - publishing houses gave out courtesy copies to reviewers to encourage them to write reviews - and he settled in to read.

An hour into the book, he sensed someone standing beside him. When he looked up, Jinwoo was holding out a cup of hot cocoa.

Dongmin smiled at him. “Thank you, Jinwoo-ssi.”

Jinwoo smiled back. “You’re welcome.” Then he turned and walked away.

So it had been him all along. Dongmin sipped his hot cocoa and continued reading, making notes in the margins as he went, just like in school.

A couple of hours later, he’d finished the book, so he stood up to stretch and see about getting some lunch.

“Here,” Bin said, appearing beside Dongmin’s desk with the other four in tow. “We went out for some chicken, and we figured you would need food.”

“You’re like a robot when you read,” Sanha said. “You barely moved.”

Dongmin accepted the carry-out bag. “Thank you so much. You didn’t have to.”

Minhyuk clapped him on the shoulder. “Eat well.” 

Dongmin smiled. “I will.”

The others dispersed back to their desks, though Jinwoo lingered.

He said, “It might be a bit spicy for you, but - you might surprise yourself, with how much heat you can take.”

Dongmin nodded. “All right. Thank you.”

Jinwoo smiled briefly, and then he headed back to his desk.

Dongmin carried his lunch into the break room and fixed himself a mug of hot cocoa. As soon as he opened the carton, the smell of the spice hit him, and his nose started to run. Could he really eat this? He took a tiny bite, and - oh. It wasn’t bad at all. It actually tasted really good. So he took a bigger bite. When it was finished, he was sweating a little, but he felt much better. He finished off his hot cocoa, and he cleaned up, and then it was back to work.

* * *

That evening, after work, Dongmin rode the train and bus home, and he fixed himself supper, and he started reading another of the books on his review list. And he considered. He should buy a keyboard and start playing piano again. Maybe he could get a cat. And sometime he should go out on the weekend with Bin and the others, if they were up for it. Maybe he’d let Bin set him up on a blind date, too, though he’d have to explain to Bin that his type was not girls.

When it was finally time for bed, he texted his mother and brother, and he brushed his teeth and changed into pajamas. He put his phone on the charger on the nightstand, and he turned off the lights, and he lay in the darkness, listening to his heart beat.

And he closed his eyes, and he dreamed.

**Author's Note:**

> So much gratitude to the amazing [vonseal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonseal/pseuds/vonseal) for giving this a look-see and reassuring me that the brain weasels telling me this was a disaster were just being weasels.
> 
> Title from the lyrics to the song requested in the prompt:
> 
> Once more, you open the door  
> And you're here in my heart  
> And my heart will go on and on
> 
> Also vaguely inspired by the K-drama Beating Again/Falling for Innocence


End file.
